Enter Sandman
by 332249
Summary: Crossover with Sandman Slim books. James Stark AKA Sandman Slim, meet Dean Winchester. Hell's other escapee.


James Stark, nephilim and former assassin of hell, found himself staring down a barrel of a gun without quite knowing how it happened. He'd been lurking in a dark alley, waiting for the Cucuy to make another appearance so he could bag the bastard and collect the reward offered by the grieving parents of its latest victim. Should have been easy money since Mexican boogeymen only ever go after children, certainly not anyone or anything as dangerous as Stark.

Mexican boogeyman also don't carry guns, so whoever or what ever this was that got the drop on him wasn't the Cucuy. The gun didn't exactly worry him, as much as the gunman's sudden inexplicable appearance did.

Even as the gunman visibly waffled on whether or not to pull the trigger, Stark mentally flipped through his library of Hellion hoodoo for a way to reverse his current predicament.

But before he could spit out the spell, another man joined the party. From his angle, the newcomer seemed to materialize out of the alleyway's other shadows. For a brief moment, Stark wondered if the technique was magic or skill. This man was staring at Stark, like he knew him. Gently, he pushed the gun away from its target. "Sam," he murmured, in warning and command.

The gunman allowed the other man to ruin his aim, though warily, and the gun was not put away. He kept glancing between quarry and ally, looking for clues as to why he was standing down and what the hell was going on. Clearly though, he was willing to defer judgment. "Dean?" he asked.

"Put it away, Sam. That's not out guy, and shooting him will only piss him off."

Stark chuckled, trying to appear unconcerned. Damn straight it'd piss him off. Didn't mean it wouldn't hurt, though.

Far from reassured, Sam steadied his grip on his weapon. "You know him?"

Stark could read the subtext there: Is he safe? Is he a problem? Who IS he?"

"Know **of** him. That's Sandman Slim." Dean explained. All the while staring straight at Stark, and there was something in his eyes that he couldn't quite place. It wasn't fear, exactly, though there was definite concern. It wasn't the cold calculation of the power hungry magic families who wanted to use him. Nor was it the disgust or distaste of the angels who thought him an abomination. It was like... Like the man respected him. People who knew who he was, what he could do, what he had done and were still fine with him didn't come along very often.

Sam gave his partner a bitch-face that clearly said how deeply unhelpful just the name was.

But before Sam could demand more details, the Cucuy in all his his disturbing glory landed on both men. Hard. It must have jumped on them from one of the roof tops that Candy was supposed to be patrolling. Sam hit the ground hard under it, loosing his gun and all the air in his lungs. Dean got himself shoved head first into a brick wall equally as hard. To his credit, he staggered but didn't go down.

While it was busy playing with the humans, Stark scrambled for his na'at. Triggers depressed and the extremely sharp spear form sprang out. Pulling his arm back, he let go; intending to skewer the thing to the wall. But the damn thing was faster than Stark expected. It seemed to twitch aside just enough to avoid the business end. The na'at slammed home into the brick wall inches from Dean's head.

The Cucuy turned its attention on Stark. Pissed and clearly willing to dance with more than scared little kids. Weak street lights reflected off of its beetle-like skin: black and hard. Claws on its four arms extended and spikes grew out of its shoulders and joints. Ignoring Sam, wheezing on the ground, it advanced on Stark.

Black knife in hand, Stark backed up to give himself room to maneuver while trying to get a feel for how this thing moved.

Behind the Cucuy's back, Dean worked the na'at out of the wall. Surprisingly, he didn't cut himself on the edges or trigger any of the buttons. Clumsily, the man flipped the na'at around to proper orientation. After a moment's fumbling, it shifted into the whip. And it did it without taking any of his fingers off. Some small part of Stark's back brain recognized that this wasn't the first time the man had handled that kind of weapon; although he clearly didn't have much experience or was extremely out of practice. But who outside of demons and himself could possibly have experience with a Hellion weapon? Except for his own, they only exist in Hell.

"Anchor!" Dean called and cracked the na'at out.

Still wheezing but willing, Sam lurched forward. The na'at wrapped around the Cucuy's next (and one forelimb). Snarling and moving its focus to his attacker, it didn't notice Sam until he wrapped his long, tall-person arms around the monster's lower legs and leaned. Even as the Cucuy fell forward, Dean drew the na'at taught and pulled back. Between the two men, the Cucuy's head detached clean from his shoulders.

Sam collapsed forward onto the monster's headless corpse. Dean fell backwards against the lack of counterweight and landed on his ass with a grunt. Sam sat up slowly, still forcing oxygen into his battered lungs. Although his movements were slow, his eyes were fast taking in the state of his friend and clearly running a safety-security-danger assessment. Dean made no move to get up. From the way he was blinking and not looking at anything, Stark could tell the man was having a hard time focusing. Probably heavily concussed from the header into the wall.

Stark took in the battered men and the dead Cucuy. "Fuck. There goes that bounty."

Sam blinked confusedly up at him. "Bounty? What bounty?"

"Fifty-fifty," Dean argued (even though he was till having trouble focusing). But a concussion wasn't enough to cloud out the opportunity for extra cash. "And you do the clean up since all you did was be distracting."

"You know who I am and you're trying to horn in on my payday? You got some big balls on you, my friend."

Dean pulled himself to his feet and grinned. "Nah, ballsy woulda been trying to split it into thirds: one for you, two for us."

Damn. He was either going to like this guy or shoot him. Before doing either, Stark grumbled, "If you expect me to bend over and take your shit, I need a drink first."

Dean barked a laugh. "Fair enough. Know a good bar? I'll buy first round."

.

.

.

Carlos is a great bartender. When his favorite patron ambled through the door with two hayseeds in tow, he doesn't ask questions. (Honestly, the two country bumpkins were far from the strangest things following in Sandman Slim's wake.) All he asked was, "Coffee, Jack or something stronger?"

Stark eyed the stockier of the two before deciding. "Gimme the good stuff. He's buying."

Nodding (and still not asking) Carlos set out three shot glasses and filled them all with a double shot. "Enjoy."

Stark threw back his without hesitation, enjoying the liquor's burn.

Dean lifted his glass to his lips and paused, nostrils flaring at the smell. He glanced at Carlos in surprise, but down half his glass.

Beside him, Sam took a sip from his own glass. Instantly, he spewed out the dark red (almost black) liquid. Gasping and coughing roughly, he demanded, "What the hell am I drinking?"

Dean smirked. "Agua Regia. Tastes a little like gasoline spiked with pepper spray, doesn't it?"

Sam sputtered some more, trying to get the taste off of his tongue. "Why would anyone drink that crap?"

Stark reached over and snaked Sam's abandoned glass. "Hell's finest. Nothing like it on earth."

"I repeat, why?"

Dean set his glass down. "Come on, Sammy. Humans need whiskey to forget about their troubles on earth. Demons need something stronger to forget about their troubles in hell."

Stark stared hard at Dean. "You're not a demon. But you can handle a na'at and Agua Regia."

Dean shrugged. "I did my tour Downtown after I hocked my soul at the crossroads. After a while, the God Squad busted me out and popped me back into my meatsuit feeding me some crap line about how I had a destiny and a job to do for them."

Sam huffed. "Yeah, that went _exactly_ the way they planned it."

"Before the rescue, that's when... A demon, Alastair, took me to see one of your fights in the Arena, once. That's how I recognized you," Dean tried to explain. If Stark had been paying attention, he would have noticed how much the man's speech stumbled over the memories of Downtown.

But Stark had tuned him out for a moment. "My tour Downtown" had the same sound of army vets saying "my tour in 'Nam." A tone that was a mixture of terror and exhilaration during a time in his life separate from the rest, a living nightmare during which the dreamer never felt so alive.

Stark could relate. His time in the Arena had been terrible and painful, brutal and bloody, and... easier. No hard decisions, no worrying over friends who might get hurt because of him, no spare thoughts for politics or repercussions. Life was simple: don't die. He didn't know why he asked his next question. Maybe it was that he'd never meet another living soul who escaped from the Pit and some part of him had to ask while he could. Even if he didn't know this person, the words popped out of his mouth without checking with his brain.

"Do you ever miss it?"

Dean blinked in surprise, clearly not expecting the query. Buy it only took him a second to recover and then consider who was asking and why.

Stark knew for a fact that the man couldn't actually read minds (that was kinda Stark's thing), but that didn't stop Dean from reading the expression on his face.

Slowly, Dean answered, "No. No, I spent all of my forty years in the Racks. There's nothing to miss there. Most days, I pretend with everything I got, that I can't remember the place. And I'm a real good liar, ya know?

"But sometimes... Sometimes I miss Purgatory. You know, where monster's go when they die? I was only there for a year. It was 24/7, three hundred-sixty degree combat against all the nastiest comers and everything there wanted a piece of the only living human in the while freakin' dimension. But I had my best friend at my back and an ally at my side. Life was hard. And simple. And pure.

"Coming back was hard. Even though I spent all that time fighting my way out, I suddenly didn't know for sure if out, if back on earth was what I really wanted. But... a friend help me realize: What's the point in being out, being free again, if you don't allow yourself to savor your freedom? If you just settle for going through the motions, without appreciating the things around you, then its like you never left. Its like they still got you, like you never escaped.

"And you know what? Screw that. Screw _them_.

"I am alive and I am going to live life.

"And, damn, I forgot how fast Agua Regia goes straight to my head."

Stark had to laugh. This Dean guy had to have an amazing constitution to shoot Hellion liquor on a human stomach and not pass out. He refilled his glass and raised in in a toast. "I'll drink to that. Here's to fucking hell."


End file.
